


But First We Live

by luna_plath



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ADWD spoilers, Alternate Universe - Future, F/M, Het, Prompt Fic, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 14:27:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna_plath/pseuds/luna_plath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon’s expression is far away, somewhere on the map with his sister who may be dead or lost or hiding.  Patiently, she waits for him to return. Written for gameofships hump day prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But First We Live

Daenerys has known many men in her lifetime. She knows what it feels like to have a man’s attention and she can plainly tell that she does not have Jon’s. In her quarters the map of the known world is laid out on an oaken table, showing Westeros, Essos, Sothoros, the Summer Isles and the Land-Beyond-the-Shadow. He traces the map with his burned hand, searching the lands that have been stamped into the leather

She stands beside him, whiter than snow next to his shock of dark hair and his black cloak. Whether he wears it out of habit or true conviction she isn’t certain. Jon Snow had taken vows, once, as had many others, but winter has worn them all thin and destroyed whatever order they used to belong to. 

The cold has claimed more black brothers than she will ever know, from the White Walkers, frostbite, or the allure of peaceful sleep in the virgin snow. They say that thinking is the most difficult when the cold comes, so strong and pure that it freezes everything until, at last, you feel only numbness. She wonders if the frigid temperatures have gotten to his thoughts.

Covering his scarred hand with her own, Daenerys laces her fingers with his, feeling a needle-sharp trail of awareness ghost over her skin. Not cold then.

“Have the trees told you something?” she asks, his finger lightly tracing the inside of her palm.

“I wish,” Jon says. His skin is impossibly warm, and his light touch on her wrist makes her shiver.

“I was thinking of my sister,” he tells her.

In all the time they have known each other Daenerys has never heard him speak of Arya Stark, she only has the stories that get passed around like myths among her men. Of the Boltons and the false Arya, of direwolves that devour Northern traitors.

“Where is she?”

“I have asked myself that same question for many years,” he says, his arm coming to rest around her waist.

His touch is familiar and she leans into it, exciting something low and warm in her belly, a tingling along her spine. She can smell the heady scent of the forest on his skin.

“She’ll find you when she’s ready,” Daenerys says, her pale hand on his chest, feeling the worn leather and hard muscle underneath.

Jon’s expression is far away, somewhere on the map with his sister who may be dead or lost or hiding. Patiently, she waits for him to return.

“I can’t stand the thought of dying before that happens,” he says, his eyes closed to the possibility.

Jon kisses her cheek, pressing his lips against her neck, her collarbone and her chest while she smoothes her fingers through his hair.

“She may already be dead,” Daenerys says. “You may die tomorrow, or the next day. But first we must live,” she whispers, their breath mingling in the close, static air.

Jon’s warm mouth covers her own and this is when she feels like she truly knows him, this quiet man who looks like a wolf and fights like a warrior. His hand cups her cheek, gentle, his thumb brushing her skin while she grabs the front of his jerkin, walking backwards until she feels the edge of the table.

Daenerys sits on the polished oak, her legs snaking around his waist. Layers of wool, fur, and boiled leather separate them, but the warmth from his body is searing, like Drogon’s scales beneath her palms. There are direwolves carved into the base of the table, their claws dulled with time. _Can the Kings of Winter see us?_ she wonders, a small moan escaping her as Jon cups her breast through her clothes, his thumb dragging over her nipple.

He lifts her heavy wool skirt, both of them pulling at her stockings and smallclothes until she feels his hand against her center, his fingers dipping inside her and making her quake against him like a branch in the wind.

She tugs at his laces and strokes his cock, loving the way his face looks when she holds him like this. His eyes are shut and there’s heat underneath his skin, his blood coming to a slow boil. Daenerys guides him inside her, arching and gasping at the feeling when his hips are flush with hers. Jon bites her chest and eases it with his tongue, leaving a bruise to form while she rocks back and forth, little strokes from his hips as she slips her arms around his neck, grabs at his hair, anything to ground her and keep her from melting to the floor.

His hands are braced on her hips, keeping her still while he rocks into her over and over again. Daenerys wants to climb on top of him and take control but it is so lovely to feel his strength over her, pressed between the cool wood and his warm body.

Her peak comes upon her suddenly, licking over her insides like a flame over dry kindling. Once she regains herself she glides her tongue over his, pulling his lower lip between her teeth as her hands ease under his tunic and over his hard chest. 

“Let go,” she whispers, biting his ear. “I’ve got you Jon, let go.”

He buries his face in her neck as he comes, his back and shoulders tense beneath her hands as his hips cant against hers erratically. Daenerys kisses along his jaw and rakes her fingers through his dark, curling hair, whispering to him while he holds her hips tightly in his hands. Jon’s breathing begins to even out and he presses his cheek against hers, his stubble pleasantly rough on her skin, still inside her as they hold each other, her hips aching.

She doesn’t want him to pull out. She wants to keep him here, inside her forever, but she knows he’ll leave. Whether it’s for duty or death or a girl named Arya Stark, she knows he’ll wander. Daenerys breathes him in, her face against his shoulder, smelling the wolf on him and conifers and smoke from the fire. Jon kisses her and it’s slow and sweet, but impermanent


End file.
